


Still Waters

by Marien



Category: The People - Zenna Henderson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-02-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1639184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marien/pseuds/Marien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for Riverlight in the NYR 2007 challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for riverlight

 

 

Foreword: this is for Riverlight, in the New Year's Resolution Challenge. I'm afraid I ended it on a cliffhanger. I didn't mean to, but this  
_refuses_ to be a short story. 

STILL WATERS

I'd never been to the Southwest before in my life. I grew up in Albany, New York, never did much  
traveling. That was for rich families or people going to work in another part of the country, in my  
day. I got through high school at my parents' insistence and enlisted the day after my 18th birthday.

March 12th, 1944. I remember, even after so long. ...  
I met Stephen Makens at my first posting, overseas, in Europe. The Armed Air Forces, Sixteenth  
Battalion. He was from Arizona. Quiet, was our first impression of him. Clean shaven, respectful, but "old time tough."

He didn't start any fights. I never saw him drunk. Yet the brawlers somehow just...gave him a wide berth.  
It wasn't his size, though at six feet , that was impressive. It was something in his eyes.  
Like even when he was there, smiling and talking, there was this wall up that said "this close,  
no closer."

You might come into barracks mad, but look him in the face or cuss him out, and you found  
yourself wondering if you really wanted to keep pushing at him and see what lay behind the  
mask.

He was in better shape than most of us. Turned out he was good with machines, too, though  
when it came to marksmanship or fixing a damaged gun, that was my job in the unit. We were both  
pilots, officially. Unofficially, we all wore several hats.

  


"Ask Thomas," he'd always say when someone asked him.  
The C.O. would bring in letters from home every week, and was real clear on expecting  
us to write back to our families. I'd write to Dad. Ma was never real happy about me being in the  
service. The war had dragged on for years now, and didn't show any signs of being done soon.  
But she still mailed me a box of her peanut butter cookies and an extra pair of socks every  
other week, bless her. She wasn't a talker; it'd always been actions you had to go by.

  


Stephen never got any letters or care packages. Nothing.

That baffled me. I wasn't sure I should say anything. We got on okay, but we weren't really friends  
yet. Finally, I just stopped dillying over it and asked, why not.  
No one else was around. It was the weekend, and in the middle of May. Most of the crew  
were out on a weekend pass. The barracks weren't their idea of a fun place to be.

  


He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, cleaning his helmet, after a march. He just put it down and  
stared at me for a moment. Then he shut his eyes, dropping his head into his hands.  
"They ...There's no need. But I haven't talked to them since I enlisted. I probably should. It's just  
hard. There's so little of the Presence here," he said that last in a low voice, nearly a whisper.

"Presence?"

His head came up. "It's complicated. I-- My people don't believe in killing. For one of us to go as a  
soldier isn't something they... They don't understand. My sister was afraid I'd die and they'll never  
know. Or something worse might happen."

  


I was sitting across from him. "Hell. I'm sorry. Maybe the brass could talk to them? Or Father Carlson?"  
I knew the base chaplain and Stephen got on all right. He was teaching Stephen to play chess, and  
I'd heard Stephen quote Biblical passages that were so obscure that I had to look 'em up, good Protestant  
or not. He went to services regularly.

  


He laughed dryly. "It'll be okay. If I go home, after..."

We never talked about that openly. It was the Forties. Being 'open about your feelings' among guys when they were scared,  
just wasn't done. I miss those times, awful as they were...Never mind. I'm wandering off the subject.  
After almost sixty years, that'll happen sometimes.

"What's your sister's name?" I asked finally. "Is she the only other kid your folks have?"

"No. Laurel. She's three years older than I am. I have an older brother, too. Terry. They're twins."

He opened his wallet and took out a photo to show me. They were both in it. Laurel was dark-haired,  
like Stephen; I could see the resemblance. She was smiling at the camera. Terry looked distracted,  
staring up at something that didn't appear in the picture.

"I miss them. But I can't keep up that fight and...here, too, y'know? You can't MAKE someone  
listen to you if they're not ready."

I started to say something, but then the door banged open. "Shit! Makens, Wright--SOMEONE!"  
It was Harry Backers, another new GI.. He was all muscle and temper most of the time.  
Reminded me of a bulldog, but not now; he was pale, looking scared.  
Two of the other men came in behind him, carrying a third. All I could see was a head of  
blond hair and a LOT of blood soaking the legs of his pants. Stephen was over next to  
them before I even stood up. "Put him down!" he barked. "What happened?"

"He was drunk. Tried to climb up on the roof, he and Foster, and he fell---"

"Thomas, go find one of the medics. Don't walk. Run." Stephen had yanked the blanket off a  
nearby cot, ripping it to make an improvised bandage. "He's lost his foot."  
My stomach twisted in knots. I turned and ran , all-out.

I found one of the medics not too far from the barracks. He followed me back once I got my  
breath enough to explain I wasn't the one who needed help.  
We met Stephen and Harry halfway there, carrying the injured guy on a plank between them.  
The doc had his first aid kit in hand, and started right in on the patient, not looking up.

We heard a yell.  
It was coming from the rooftop of the mess hall. Backers turned even whiter. "He's still UP  
there---shuuugar--- Foster, don't MOVE!" he yelled.  
Foster leaned over, waving at us, grinning like a fool...  
slipped, his feet skidding over the shingles, as he grabbed frantically for a handhold  
and went off the edge, three stories up.

Everyone was staring, horrified.  
Then, what most of us could never explain, happened...  
The sunlight seemed to bend in on itself, as if it had turned to shining cords, a pattern like  
my ma's knitting. It wrapped itself around Foster. His fall slowed, slowed, impossibly,  
until he reached the ground, touching down gently as if he'd had no further to go than  
a few inches.

I glanced at the others, at Stephen, just in time to see him lower an outstretched hand,  
bits of sunlight and shadow trailing from his fingers like stray threads before they  
vanished.

Our eyes met, his dark green and turning immediately blank, wary, mine blue and utterly  
confused. I started to ask "what did you do?" but the words never got out before the  
medic interrupted.  
"I need another pair of hands here, NOW!"

The first roofclimber was bleeding again, the shattered ruin of his leg spouting like a  
fountain. Stephen and the doctor worked to stop it, but their expressions were too  
calm as they hustled him away.

I shuddered, swallowed hard, trying not to lose my breakfast. Backers was similarly green.  
Then I jerked Foster to his feet and dragged him inside. I was furious, and scared. I called  
him any number of names that would've gotten my mouth rinsed out with a month of soap,  
at home. He'd been the unit's prankster from day one, always egging people on to take  
stupid chances. I usually ignored him. Not today.

We stuck him under an ice-cold shower, ignoring his complaints. Sarge showed up to see  
what all the ruckus was about. When he heard, the look on his face made Foster shut up  
and take several steps back.  
"Stay in your quarters until I come back," was all he said before he left for the base hospital,  
but no one within shouting distance of any brains would have dared argue with that tone of  
voice.

I went to rinse the blood off my hands, silent. Foster curled up on his bunk, not looking  
at us. I think it'd gotten through to him how much trouble he might be in.

Once Stephen came in from outside, almost two hours later, it didn't seem to matter.  
The C.O. was with him. Sarge gave Stephen a rough pat on the shoulder and then  
urged him to go take a breather.  
The looks on their faces were explanation enough, before Sarge turned to tell us that  
Rimes had just died.

Stephen left the barracks not long afterward. I waited 'til no one would notice me  
going, before I trailed after him.  
I found him by one of the hangars, looking up at a plane's nose. He didn't turn to  
look at me. "Wright." He sounded tired.  
"Are you all right?" I knew it was a stupid question, but I wasn't sure where to start.

"He died. I couldn't help them both at the same time, that's not...part of my Gift.  
I thought it'd be okay, and then..." He shook his head.

I had a few hundred questions now. The sound of his voice made me put them away.  
"Stephen, I-- I don't know how you could do what I saw, but if you hadn't been there,  
Foster would have broken his neck for sure. You saw the shape Rimes was in, and he didn't  
fall half that far. We'd have lost them both. " I sucked in a breath. "Thank you."

He looked at me sharply. "I shouldn't have let anyone see me, but there wasn't time--"

"If it's a secret, I won't tell anyone. Not even at gunpoint," to this day I don't know what made  
me say that. He looked...haunted. He was staring into the past, and whatever he remembered,  
I'd have bet it wasn't pleasant.

He came back to himself. "It is. It's--Other people might be hurt if it got out that I'm...different.  
My family, my friends."

"So it's not just you?" I winced. "Or shouldn't I ask?"

Stephen laughed tiredly. "I trust your word. And there's no un-knowing what you know. Not for  
anybody."

So we talked for what felt like hours. No one else came to see where the hell we'd gone.

I felt like I'd jumped into the middle of one of my favorite comics or something. Aliens,  
space ships, people who could fly and ...all of it! Only it wasn't a story, it was about real  
people.

Stephen had grown up in a town named "Bendo", on Earth, but his grandparents? Were from  
this 'Home' he talked about. They were still alive, he said, though the trip from their world to  
here hadn't been easy on any of them.  
He showed me how he could "lift" or move things around. We got a laugh out of me trying to  
do it. It's not the sort of thing you can learn to be; you're born with it, like the color of your eyes.  
You're either blue eyed or you're not. He wouldn't let me call it "super powers." His people called it 'Gifts or  
Persuasions'. "I'd look silly in a cape," he pointed out, and I had to give him that one.

"Like magic..."

"The Presence gives something to everyone," Stephen said. "A gift, and a purpose. That's what we  
believe. To love, and to find that purpose for our days, is all that's asked of us. When it's time,  
we're Called to return to it as we came."

"Aren't you ever afraid?"

He hesitated, then, " Not of passing on. Afraid that I'll forget who I am with pretending all the time.  
You fake something long enough and after a while it gets to be more than an act. But here, there's no  
privacy..."

I smacked him on the back of the head. "Moron," affectionately. "You get leave time same as the rest of  
us, use it! And you can tell me..."

"I know." He smiled slowly.

He was a little happier after that, I think. Now that he had someone who understood better.  
We started going out on the town together. He showed me how to play a decent game of chess, though  
I was never an ace at it. I showed him how to dance--Would you believe he didn't know how? Don't you  
dare laugh. He said he'd never been out with a girl that steady, before signing up. How to hold his beer  
and spot a cheater at cards, no mind-reading required.

Foster's survival became one of the unit's 'stories'. No one was ever able to explain it. Father  
Carlson just ascribed it to a miracle, and suggested sternly that Foster not press his luck a second time.

The war takes it toll on people. We flew several missions together. I wondered, but never asked, if  
Stephen was using his Gift to protect himself. Several times he 'just missed' being hit at close range by  
enemy planes' fire, or there were odd incidents.

No, I didn't ask him to do anything to help the rest of the unit. I admit I thought about it, but  
then what would happen to them if they got used to being 'lucky', and he wasn't there?  
Plus, sooner or later someone would figure out that something was UP  
and start asking the sort of question that he needed to avoid.

The history books can't really tell you, if you haven't been there. It's not like the movies either. I still have  
nightmares about explosions, once in a while. Smells like burning oil and napalm. It's messy and terrifying  
and all you want to do is stay alive. Heroism, or what people call that, is about being better at shooting first,  
more often than not.

We fought air battles. I saw more than one of my buddies' planes explode, leaving only red hot shrapnel  
of them, others crash and we'd spend an hour or more--if we COULD-- cutting their remains out of  
something that looked like a tin can some kid had stomped on.

The docs, including a psychiatrist, and the base chaplain, kept an eye on us for 'shell shock.' A few  
of the men got to liking alcohol too much, though no one could really blame them. Others found  
distractions in working til they dropped, or in women, or seeing who could outfly/outshoot the  
rest.

In early summer, 1945, Stephen was reassigned. He said only that he was going to be with the  
forces off of Japan's shores, but that he couldn't talk about it. Backers' theory was that he would be  
a spy. "He's good at being sneaky, at being unnoticed, and hell, everyone here knows he's the  
smartest guy in the Sixteenth. Cool customer. "

I worried. I just hoped no one had caught on, and I asked him privately later if he thought anyone  
might know.  
"I don't think so...but that's always been a risk. Maybe there is something more I can be doing, that  
I should. Else why am I here?"

We were at the commissary, talking over a couple of beers. There'd been rumors about us too, so  
while we kept our voices down, we didn't go off by ourselves to talk. In those days, being a queer  
or 'gay' was grounds for court-martial.  
No, we weren't lovers. Stop rolling your eyes at me. I know you know that already. Don't sass your  
grandpa, boy, I can still reach my baseball bat from where I'm sitting.

"Just be careful, okay?" I understood a little better about Stephen's Gifts, by that point.  
None of them included invulnerability. If someone hit him hard enough, he bled like any of us.

"I will."

I didn't see him again for months.

June, '45, I took a hit during a recon flight and my plane went down. I got out. We weren't behind  
enemy lines, small bit of luck, but to this day I don't remember being brought back. I was hurting.  
Shrapnel in my shoulder and chest, burns to my face, hands, and one arm. I'd be out of work for months,  
best case. I'd lost two fingers on my gun hand.

It took a while for me to realize that some of the damage to my face wasn't just skin. It was when I tried to  
walk. I couldn't keep my balance at times. I'd get dizzy and feel like the floor was moving under me, and  
fall if I didn't have something to grab. My hearing wasn't as good as it had been on one side.  
The base docs checked again, and found out that my inner ear had been damaged. Ruptured something in  
there. They didn't have to tell me they couldn't fix it. I knew.

I was given an honorable discharge, and got ready to go home.  
The same day I left the barracks for good, I got a letter from Stephen's C.O. I had to read it three times  
for it to make sense.

_Your brother Stephen has been wounded in the performance of his duties._  
_He is presently at our base hospital, recovering._  
_He has asked us to notify you, and allow you to inform the rest of your family._  
_Lieutenant Makens will likely receive a medical discharge when he is able to travel home, as well._  
_He has served his country honorably and we are eternally in his debt for such. There comes a time_  
_for any soldier to return home, I am only thankful that in his case it need not be after his death._

Well, I had no objection, still don't, to Stephen calling me his brother. In its own way, it was true.  
But I was none too happy to hear the rest of that. I made travel plans, but not to go straight home.  
I had to argue with the brass. Bein' a 'war hero' came in useful then, even as a noncom who'd been  
in for less than two years.

I walked into the hospital at his base in France, a week later. Stephen looked all right, but he was  
white as new snow, and didn't so much as stir when I spoke to him. I had to corner one of the docs  
to tell me what injuries he had, and that didnt' explain why he hadn't woken up yet. He'd come out of it  
enough to eat, do the necessary, but nothing else. Didn't speak, didn't move.

His C.O. wouldn't give me a straight answer about the mission he'd been on when he got hurt. "It's  
classified...I'm sorry, but there it is."

"I want to take him home. " I couldn't think what else to do. I did know that they were talking of surgery  
to try to fix what might be wrong, and that was trouble all by itself. I didn't know if they'd be able to  
do that safely on one of the People. I sure's fire wasn't going to let Stephen be the first experiment.

Lots of wrangling with the doctors, but eventually I got them to see my way of things. They wrote release  
orders for both of us, and made arrangements for a flight home.

I just signed their papers, and went to sit with Stephen. I talked to him. We didn't know if he could hear,  
but I figured it couldn't hurt. I told him about the rest of our old battalion, my letters from home, anything  
I could think of that might make him want to wake up, if only to laugh.

Good thing no one else was in there. He reacted. Oh yes he did. It didn't help when the books and charts on  
the table started dancing around without benefit of hands. I nearly jumped out of my skin.  
Luckily, they just slid and then fell onto the floor. Like someone had had a fit of temper and thrown them.  
I guess the nurses thought it was me, being upset. They just looked sad when they peeked in, and one of them took the books out of his room.

"Stephen!" I whispered, urgently. "Man, don't do that! You could hurt someone..."  
Well, that might not have been the best thing to say. I didn't have as much luck explaining why the wall at the far end of the room caught fire spontaneously. I didn't have to, mind; they just decided the wiring must have been bad.

I asked to have a cot put in the room so I could stay there til we flew out in the morning.  
Didn't get much sleep. I kept having nightmares.  
(I was aboard a plane, me and four other guys. At the controls. I looked down at a city, one I didn't recognize...  
Japan? How'd I know that? Hiroshima. We were flying overhead, and let something fall from the plane before flying away at top speed...  
Then I couldn't see. There was what sounded like hundreds, thousands, of people screaming. Pain and fear  
and then....so much silence, as they were gone. Ended.  
Fire engulfed the streets far below. A burning cloud rose far, far over the city. )  
I gasped, woke up, in a cold sweat.

Was that what dying felt like to Stephen's People? Or killing, rather. I didn't think I'd ever envy them their  
Persuasions again.  
Then, maybe if everyone saw the world that way, maybe there'd be a lot fewer wars. I don't know.  
I'd heard about Hiroshima, of course, by then most of the world had. Oh, dear God. Stephen...  
I let the tears fall. No wonder he didn't want to come back.  
All I could think of was to bring him home, hope his family could help him. I didn't know what else could.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

So, back to the U.S. of A.  
His parents met us at the airstrip in Flagstaff. I'd written to them, tried to explain. I couldn't say much in a letter. 

The G.I.'s helped us get him to the car they'd used for the trip.  
Mrs. Makens looked as if she might cry. I'd hoped Stephen might snap out of it for them. Seems it wasn't going to  
be that easy. When his dad leaned over and took Stephen's hands in his, Stephen just kept staring blankly off into the distance.  
After a long moment, Mr.Makens let go and stood up.  
I introduced myself and turned to the other soldiers. "We'll be all right from here. Thanks."  
They didn't argue. I suspected they were thinking that it could have way too easily been them in his  
place.  
His folks got him on his feet and into the back seat of their Ford.  
I folded up his wheelchair and helped his father put it in the trunk, not saying anything about  
how easily they found moving heavy items. He gave me a wary once-over.  
"Stephen told you about us," it wasn't a question. 

"Yes. He trusted me. I was, am, proud to call him my friend, sir." 

"...Thank you. If you want to come out to the Canyon with us, you're welcome, naturally." He sounded as if he hoped I'd say 'no thanks'. 

"I'd like that. And when he finally wakes up, I'd like to be around." When, not if. 

"Are you so sure, Thomas?" Mrs. Makens' voice was soft, troubled. "With...everything that's happened..." 

"Yes. Guess I need to be sure enough for two, at least. He wouldn't give up on me if I were in the same trap, ma'am." 

It was a long, quiet drive. I didn't mind. They weren't in the mood for chitchat, I couldn't blame them.  
A tall, blond haired woman met us at the Makens' house. She looked to be about my age. They introduced her as Karen. I  
thought she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen, so I was speechless for a good few seconds before I remembered my own manners.  
"Ma'am." I doffed my hat. 

"Don't apologize!" she laughed. "That's the nicest reason someone's had to not talk around me, for a long time, Mr. Wright."

"All right. Are you one of the...Sorters?" Stephen had told me a little of them. Mind-readers, but more than that, somehow.  
I'd gotten the idea they were involved in helping the sick, or hurt, sometimes.

"Yes, I am," she answered calmly. "We don't eavesdrop on people without urgent reason, or permission, you understand. If it bothers you."

I shrugged. It wasn't like I was that deep a thinker, or had a head full of state secrets. I thought she'd mostly be bored by someone who  
thought more about tinkering with machines, or what he was reading in the paper, than other worlds or mysteries. If she wanted to listen to that,  
I couldn't see how it'd hurt. "Mm. But please, call me Thomas. 'Mr. Wright' makes me want to look around to see when my father got here."

"Okay." Her smile was bright as the sun.  
It vanished, when she turned to look at Stephen. Her lips tightened.  
"Bring him inside," she finally said to his parents. "This is going to be ...difficult. Thomas, forgive me,  
but I don't think you should come in just yet."

"I've seen some of it already, " I hesitated then told them about the dream, and what I thought it might mean.  
Karen shuddered. "I may need to ask you about that again, later. For now, if you want to have a look around the Canyon--?"

I took the hint and went hiking uphill.  
There was a stream. I followed it a ways, stopping when I heard kids' voices around a bend in the  
path. Laughter. " You're it!" "Am not!" "No lifting!"  
They sounded really young, and happy.  
I walked a bit further, stopped by a tree. There were three of them, two boys and a little girl.  
The girl was chasing the other two. The fact that she was running ABOVE the ground, didn't seem to  
bother them. It was like an airborne game of tag. I couldn't help but grin.  
A somewhat older boy, maybe twelve years old, was sitting on a boulder nearby, minding them.  
I gave him a wave. He nodded. The tag players noticed me at the same time. The little girl landed a  
few feet away. "Hi," she smiled. "You're new."

"Hi. My name's Thomas." Then I held out my arms, 'cause know me or not, she was clearly coming in for a  
hug. I wasn't going to push her away. It'd be like kicking a puppy. 

"I'm Lissy. Melissa." 

"Nice to meet you, Lissy Melissa." I sat on the ground next to her. 

"Silly!" She giggled. "Are you an Outsider? You don't feel like a Blend. Can you lift, too?" 

"I don't know what that word means, Blend. No one put me in a mixing bowl lately, so I guess not.  
No, I can't." 

She laughed. It was good to hear. The others came to investigate. Lissy introduced them as Gavin  
and Michael. The older boy was Bram.  
"Blends are people like Bethie, and Peter, who are from Outsiders and from the People. Bethie's  
mom was from the Home, her dad was an Outsider."

"Oh, I understand." I admit, I was curious. "Are there more now, or is it only Bethie and Peter?"

"There's no more yet. The lost ones are still being found. Like our teacher, Miss Carmody. She's  
all from the People, but she grew up with only Outsiders before she found the Canyon." Bram sounded tense. 

"What's wrong?" I asked. He was frowning; not at me, but at Lissy. 

"We're not supposed to tell people that when we don't even know them. No offense, but..."

"None taken. Why don't we talk about something else, then. You have your own school here in the  
Canyon?" and from there, we talked about ordinary things. I showed them a couple of photos  
from New York. They'd never seen snow, much less what forests looked like after a blizzard.  
"Wow. How do you walk through that? " 

"Mostly I drive, or sometimes fly," and then I had to explain that I was a pilot. They got a kick out of hearing about that.  
I didn't tell them about flying missions, no, but what it was like to be in a plane.  
Bram was especially curious, and disappointed when I didn't have any photos or blueprints I could  
show him. I told him I'd try to get some, when I had a chance. 

Lissy loved stories, too, as it turned out. We wound up sitting there while I told them the story of the Cat Who Walked By Himself, from Kipling.  
I think I got parts of it not-quite-right, but they didn't mind. 

After a little while, they got restless and took off for another game. I watched, and then decided to hike a little ways  
further up.  
I felt as though there was something I should be doing, in particular, but I didn't know what. 

The ...thing haunting Stephen wasn't something I could fix with a tool kit, or even a gun. I'd try to help but how?  
Aside from standing by him, for as long as I could, that I could do, but it wasn't enough by itself. 

Did he want to die? Somehow I didn't think so. He could've done it before now. He hadn't been...  
Called, as he put it. His time wasn't finished. He might want it to be, but the Presence pretty  
obviously didn't agree on that one. 

My leg was beginning to ache, as was my head. I still really hadn't gotten my stamina back.  
I found a handy, sun-warmed boulder and sat down again, staring at my hands. Eight fingers  
where there had been ten. 

_A time to kill, a time to heal..._

Neither of us could be the same anymore. It was clear enough that I was done with wars, too.  
Now convincing ourselves that it was done with us? That wasn't so easy to believe.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun was low in the sky when I hiked back to the Makens' house, its light painting the clouds hot gold and red and orange. A few stars were glittering overhead. I looked at them, wondering if one of those was the sun on the "Home" Stephen had mentioned a time or two.  
"No," Karen's voice nearly made me jump out of my shoes. That's one of the tricky parts of being around someone who can walk on air, you don't hear them coming sometimes.  
She laughed. "Sorry!" not sounding all that contrite. "I couldn't help--You have a strong clear voice, Thomas. But no, the People traveled for almost two years before finding Earth. The Home's sun wasn't one of those you'd see from here." 

I whistled softly. "Far far away, and no surety you'd find a place at all? Your great-grandparents must've been pretty tough."  
"We're survivors--" she broke off, looking toward the house's front door. Her expression darkened. 

"How's he doing?" 

"Not fully awake. He-- I couldn't do it alone," she faltered. "It was like drowning. So much darkness, and pain, and being swept away. I couldn't hold him and myself steady at the same time."

"So we keep trying. You shouldn't be facing that alone anyway, nor should he. But a question here...Stephen was afraid you all would reject him for killing, even in wartime. Truth in that?"

"No," she said at once, emphatically. "Never. His parents are worried sick. All they want is him back and well again. So do Terry and Laurel. " 

"But he still believes that? Or fears it, especially now?" 

Karen bit her lip. "Y-Yes. He and his father had argued, just before he left. Josiah still doesn't believe fighting is what the Presence wants of us, but he'd never turn Stephen away for that."

I sat on the porch steps, thinking for a minute. 

"That dream of yours--"

"Stephen's memory." I'd figured that out. "Hundreds of thousands dead, and not soldiers either. Burned alive or crushed..."

She flinched. I grimaced. "Karen, saying the words or not saying them won't un-happen this."

"It wasn't his doing..." her voice was very small as she sat next to me. "He held back. If he'd been using the Persuasions while there, I truly believe it would have destroyed him. He'd have been Called with the city's people." 

"But they still died." I rubbed at my face. "Fighting other soldiers was hard by itself. You have to close part of yourself off or you'll go crazy."

"He shouldn't have gone." Mr. Makens sounded tense. He was standing by the door, watching us.

I blew out a breath as I turned around. "Nor should we have sat back and watched while Hitler tried to kill every Jew he could lay hands on in Europe. Stephen believed he was doing what was right. And what's done is done. What matters is now, and finding a way to heal and build instead of destroy." I didn't know where the words came from, but they felt right. "And showing Stephen that, yes, he's a part of that Light too, that it hasn't cast him out."

Makens swallowed hard. For the first time, I saw tears in his eyes. 

"He's right." Karen nodded. I felt her hand slip into mine. 

I held out my free hand to Stephen's father. After a moment, he stumbled over to us, and took it.  
"Stephen loves you, sir," I whispered. "Don't ever doubt that you're forgiven, too."  
He choked. For a bit, we three just clung to each other. Maybe I had something in my eye, too, but we won't talk about that.

"Ready for round two?" I asked Karen. 

She blinked, and then caught what I was thinking. "That's--"

"Darlin', you do realize that you're talking to a man who made a job out of being shot and blowing things up for almost three years? If I wanted safe and comfy, I definitely took a wrong turn somewhere," I cracked. Said more seriously, " 'A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity'." 

Karen took a deep breath. "Not yet. I need a bit of a respite. But yes, I think you're right. This could work. Tomorrow." 

"Agreed." I made myself let go, though I couldn't remember a single time when I'd wanted _not_ to do something less.


End file.
